Blood Calls
by chemm80
Summary: Dean and Sam take a disturbing case that calls up bad memories for Sam. Set mid season 1. Contains strong language, sexual situations and potentially disturbing content.


It was a section of road like any other, unremarkable in the extreme unless you counted its sheer lack of feature

**Title: **Blood Calls

**Author: **chemm80

**Characters/Pairings:** Sam, Dean/OFC

**Disclaimer: **Dean and Sam don't belong to me, but I love 'em like brothers.

**Warnings: **They're foul-mouthed ya'll. Business as usual. Also, Dean has hot sex. In the car. I'm just sayin'

**Summary: **Casefile set mid Season 1. The boys take a disturbing case that stirs up unpleasant memories for Sam.

**A/N: **I haz porned. Concrit is craved but please be gentle. It's my first time. More spoilery author's notes found at the end of the fic.

**Word Count: **Approximately 11,300

Chapter 1

The road told him nothing. The tarry stretch lay straight and wide, broad shoulders muscling against the dry prairie grass on either side, each easily the width of a full lane. The first visible rise in the ground was at least two miles away.

Sam stood up from where he had squatted to study the pavement, as though a closer vantage would show him anything he didn't already know. Tread marks, broken glass and blood—a lot of blood—dried black on black against the asphalt, soaked into the surface like the road's secrets. The spatter splayed in fine drops across the edges, punctuating the finality of it. Period. The end.

The last two victims had been a couple on a motorcycle, parents of three. They'd swerved into the path of a semi for no reason the truck's distraught driver could see. Sam felt a slow wave of revulsion roll through his gut at the thought of what little remained of two human beings and was relieved to recognize the sensation. Some day he'd become immune to the sight and smell of death, surely. He dreaded that.

"Anything?" Dean nodded at the EMF meter in Sam's hand.

"Yeah. There's been a spirit of some kind here."

"Last survivor saw a woman in white. That's two in the last couple of months. We running some kind of special on 'em?"

"The M.O. isn't typical woman in white. All of the victims I've found so far have been couples, not unfaithful men. As far as we know, anyway."

"Maybe she's lookin' for a threesome." Dean sighed and scanned the horizon. "Shit. This one's gonna take a hell of a lot of research, isn't it?"

"Probably. Might as well get started."

Sam spent the afternoon bent over his laptop, not finding much more than he already knew—a list of accidents with a high mortality rate, occurring over the last twenty years or so. Dean had the accident reports, but Sam could tell from the fidgeting and occasional obscenity that he wasn't making much headway either. The two survivors they'd talked to so far told a similar story of a woman dressed in white who appeared in the road, causing the driver to swerve and crash. There was nothing to do but keep working their way through the list.

The last name belonged to a woman in the next town over. She had been spectacularly unhelpful and a little rude. Interviews were one of Sam's least favorite parts of their job anyway. There was always some lying involved and although he could ad lib if he needed to, he didn't come to it as naturally as Dean did. It was work.

He was exhausted and irritable, his mood not improved by the fact that their route back to town took them through the hot zone they'd visited that morning. It looked so innocuous and he didn't know why he was surprised. Evil rarely advertised, in his experience. If you didn't know to look for the bloodstains and skid marks, they might even pass unnoticed. Nothing to see here.

Except now there_ was_. She was standing in the road. Her loose dress was white. She was covered with blood from the waist down. For a second all Sam could see was the slash of red across her abdomen. His breath seized in his throat. _Oh my God—Jessica._

"Dean!" he yelled.

Dean's head snapped around.

"What the fuck, Sam?"

"Stop the car! Shit, don't you see her?"

Dean hit the brakes and Sam saw now she wasn't Jessica. There wasn't even a resemblance. Her features were angular and her hair long and dark. The sunlight caught the necklace she was wearing and the flash blinded him. He squinted and threw his hand up instinctively. When he moved his hand to look again she was gone and Dean had pulled over.

Dean was saying something, but the roaring in his ears made it hard to hear. Sam swiped at the sweat on his face with his forearm. He blinked exaggeratedly, hoping to clear his head.

"Sammy. Hey, you okay?"

Dean's hand was on his shoulder. He didn't even have to look at Dean to know what he wanted to know— the same thing "you okay?" _always_ meant these days. _Vision_?

Maybe, but not the kind Dean meant. It was nothing like the others; that was the thing. There was no headache, no death scene flashing in his head with seizure-inducing rhythm.

So if not a death vision, then what? Some new psychic ability? God. He couldn't think about that right now.

He opened his door to get some air. He took a few deep breaths in through his nose and levered out of the seat, white-knuckling the Impala's doorframe on the way up to control the shakes. A half second later he had his hands on his knees, vomiting into the grass.

Dean came around to the front of the Impala and leaned against it, but stayed far enough back from Sam to give him some illusion of privacy. When Sam thought he had control of himself, he stood up and reached into the car for a bottle of water. He rinsed and spit, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He dropped the water bottle into his seat and leaned his elbows on the roof, not ready to get back into the confined space. Dean mirrored him on the driver's side, his eyes full of questions.

Of course none of Dean's real questions would see the light of day. He looked off to his left for a second and then turned back to face Sam, studying him with an intense green gaze that Sam wouldn't meet.

"Sammy, please tell me you didn't go and get yourself pregnant."

Sam looked at him tiredly, couldn't muster even an eye roll.

"'Cause I can get my shotgun…force the bastard to make an honest woman of you…"

"Shut up, Dean." Sam got back in the car.

Dean followed and he wasn't smiling and it increased Sam's unease. Sam's vomit was _always _an excuse for trash talking. If this was all the shit Dean was going to give him over it—well, that said a lot about how freaked out Dean really was.

And Sam didn't feel like talking right now either, but he had to know for sure.

"I take it you didn't see her?"

"See who, Sam?" Dean asked. The question sounded a little choked, like Dean wanted desperately to keep it in, not to hear the answer. Sam couldn't blame him after everything they'd been through the last few weeks, most of it over fucked-up shit that only he could see. But this was different.

"The woman. In white."

Dean just shook his head and didn't ask for clarification.

They didn't speak for the rest of the drive, but Sam couldn't stop seeing Jess, and seeing the one image of her he'd tried so damned hard to forget. That was bad enough, but the hangover from the vision, or whatever it was, hadn't stopped there. It had caught him in a weak moment, and now his mind was busily scratching at doors he'd nailed shut months ago.

_Her gray eyes are huge and liquid in her pale, stricken face and he wants desperately to wipe that look away, right before he wipes the floor with the bastard who caused it. Because it's mostly fear he sees, verging on full-blown panic._

"_Jess, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, but gritty with the adrenaline surge that's tingling up his spine. Fight or flight, my ass. _

_The tears overflow and she looks away, putting her fingers over her mouth. Sam gently pulls her hand into his and tilts her chin back toward him. "Tell me." _

_She takes a long uneven breath and changes him forever. _

"_Sam. I'm pregnant."_

Chapter 2

"Dean, it's fine. Just drop me off at the library and go do…whatever."

"Sam, you just saw a ghost and you threw up. I'm not leaving you alone."

"Exactly, Dean—I just threw up. A bar's the last place I want to be right now. But you go, do some 'research', or…whatever you like to call it."

Dean sighed. Sam had the look that said nothing short of the unleashing of weapons of mass destruction would change his mind. Maybe not even that. Sam didn't want company right now and Dean could understand. Neither of them knew what the fuck was going on with Sam's head and it was probably a toss-up as to who was more terrified by it.

Maybe they both needed a little time to deal with this latest manifestation of the clusterfuck they called a life.

"Fine. Let's go."

Sam just grunted and rounded up his stuff. Yeah, Dean decided. Grunt-speak meant it was a good night for them to take a break from each other.

He dropped Sam off at the library and watched him until he was all the way inside, something he wouldn't admit to doing since the kid was twelve. Sam said he'd find his own way back and Dean couldn't really argue because Sam would think it was odd and he'd be right.

And watching him, hovering over him, wouldn't help anyway, because what really worried Dean wasn't something he could do shit about. He wished to God he could just reach into Sam's skull and wrench this alien thing out of him, beat it into submission. He kept thinking there must be something he could do. Fuck this sitting around helpless, watching it change Sam, take him over.

He rubbed his eyes and sighed, then gripped the wheel hard. He finally dropped it into gear and pulled away. He couldn't do shit right now. Except drink. That was the one thing he was pretty sure he could handle.

The bar was dark and fairly quiet and for once that suited Dean just fine. He sat in the back and controlled his intake with practiced precision—just enough to take the edge off his worry and irritation, but not enough to lose perception and control. The job didn't cut you any slack for being shit-faced.

The guy at the next table didn't seem to have any trouble with the idea, though. He was getting drunker and louder by the minute, and the agitation of the pretty, dark-haired girl at the table with him escalated in proportion. Dean just watched them out of the corner of his eye; he didn't need to get involved with this.

He checked his phone for messages and the time. Eleven. Early yet, but he decided he was done here. He was restless, needed to be on the move. Something was bearing down on them, the pressure of the knowledge building day by day between his shoulder blades. He had to get them out of its way. The earlier they got started in the morning, the quicker they'd be out of here.

He stood up to go and locked eyes with Mr. Drunk and Loud, now standing next to the girl's chair with his hand clenched around her upper arm. He hauled her to her feet ungently, looking Dean straight in the eye while he did, challenging him. Then he turned away and marched her to the door. She struggled and looked pissed, but whatever she was furiously whispering to the guy was lost on Dean. Why was she whispering? Was she seriously worried about making a scene at this point?

Dean flashed a look at the bartender, who was watching the whole thing worriedly, but not doing shit. Dean closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. _So much for not getting involved._

"Call 911," he instructed the bartender, his tone a command, and shouldered through the door.

They were still at it in the parking lot, though the guy had let go of her arm and they were standing about five feet apart. She opened her mouth to scream at him and Dean winced, wondering if the sheer volume had pushed the jerk off her—she wasn't that big, but the chick had some lungs on her.

"Paul, I told you this thing was over a month ago! Just leave me alone!" she bellowed.

"Come on, Lacey! We can work it out, you know I still love you…"

Dean decided it was either put a stop to it or get a set of earplugs, so he stepped out of the overhang of the building and into Paul's peripheral vision.

"Paul, I think you need to go home and sleep it off."

He took a step toward Dean and punctuated his speech by stabbing a finger at him.

"You need to fuck off and mind your own business, asshole."

Dean's lips curled into a small grim smile, and if the guy hadn't been a complete dipshit and drunk off his ass besides, he might have taken it for the warning it was. If Dean hadn't needed a distraction from the twisting anxiety in his gut, they both might have walked away from it. As it was? The shit was fanward bound with a bullet.

Dean noted with approval that the girl had sense enough to start easing herself away from Paul and behind Dean, without drawing the dickhead's attention. He let the idiot close the distance a little, keeping his eyes on his chest. Drunk as the guy was, whatever he did would telegraph so far in advance Dean doubted he'd even need to break a sweat.

Yep, there it was—a right cross so far off the mark that Dean barely had to pull his chin back to dodge it. As Paul's upper body swung by him, off balance, Dean grabbed him by the shoulders of his jacket. Thought about kneeing him in the gut; hauled him partially upright instead. Dean jabbed at his face with his right, just to feel the satisfying crunch of nose under his knuckles. Blood flew.

Paul staggered back, didn't go down like Dean half expected. He swung at Dean again, with his left this time, but making the same mistake. Dean was disgusted, with Paul and with himself, but he had to finish it now. He brought his knee up and took him to the ground, letting him slide down with a groan and stepping back quickly to avoid any puke that might be forthcoming. A knee to the belly often had that effect, and he'd been on both sides of the equation enough times to know it.

"You didn't have to do that," she said from behind him.

He turned to look at her, wiping the back of his hand on his jeans.

"You're probably right," he said. He smiled at her for a second, then turned and walked to the Impala. He heard her following, but waited until he had the car door open before turning back, swinging his left elbow to the top of the car and leaning against it.

She walked up a little too close to be casual, inside the circle of his arm, and it made her lean her head back to look at him.

"So, what?…you're like the Lone Ranger or something? Save the damsel in distress and ride off into the sunset?"

"Somethin' like that," he smiled. She really did have a nice face, pretty in a sharp-boned way. Easy to look at. And he could see she was looking back.

"Uh, listen…Lacey, is it?" he said, after a slightly too-long moment. She nodded, her gaze not wavering. "Lacey, me and Silver here really need to be gone before the posse gets here…"

She blinked. "Oh, right." She paused, then burst out, "Take me with you?"

He barked a short laugh. "What about…" he nodded in the general direction of Paul, still slumped boneless on the ground.

She followed Dean's nod, then turned a sly grin back on him.

"Aw, the sheriff and his boys can handle that problem, ol' son," she fake-drawled, slipping under his arm and into the open driver's door.

Dean made a face and wondered briefly if he ought to make her get out, wait for the police. She was probably trouble—already had been, in fact.

A police siren in the distance decided him. He got in and pulled the car onto the road in the opposite direction. He'd worry what to do about the girl when he was somewhere else.

He just drove for a minute or two, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She was starting to look a little shocky, not unexpectedly. It usually did take a few minutes to set in, in Dean's experience.

"So Lacey, where to?"

She jumped a little and folded her arms around herself, looked nervous, maybe realizing she'd just gotten into a car with a total stranger. She licked her lips. Which were really nice, he noticed. He forgot to stop looking at them when she spoke.

"Um, hey…I'm sorry," she stammered. "I can't believe I did that, just jumping into your car, I mean I never do stuff like that…I just…"

Dean took pity on her and smiled, tried to look harmless. He stuck his right hand out.

"Lacey, I'm Dean." She put her hand in his by reflex and he held on, but not too tightly, giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted. She didn't.

"Now I'm not a stranger," he said.

She smiled a little shyly and looked down at her lap. She slipped her hand out of his slowly, letting her fingers trail against his palm as it went. He honestly couldn't tell if it was deliberate or not.

"Well listen, Dean," she said after a bit, her voice gaining a little strength, "you've been really great, and I hate to ask you, but I really don't want to go home right now. Would you mind just driving around for a little while?"

Dean thought about Sam and the confines of their room and it didn't take long. He didn't mind at all. He grinned at her.

"Sweetheart, I never have a problem with driving."

He gave the Impala her head and let her go.

They wound up parked in some trees at the side of a gravel pit. Lacey said she went there to be alone and Dean didn't ask how she knew about it, not really wanting to hear about how she liked to hang out here in high school, or came here with an old boyfriend, or anything about the place at all. He just wanted it to stay peaceful like this. Wanted to listen to the soft trickle of water down the sides of the pit, not think for a while.

With the windows open and his jacket off there was just enough breeze to keep it comfortable. His buzz was long gone—it hadn't been that heavy to begin with and the rest had burned away in the fight—but he still felt relaxed enough to ignore whatever part of his shoulder was sending up a mumbling complaint. Sore knuckles were nothing he gave thought to anymore.

He set his left arm on the window frame and laid his right across the back of the seat.

"This is a beautiful car." Lacey said.

"Thanks." He added, "She was my dad's." _Why did I say that?_

"Yeah? My grandfather was into classic cars. He had a '57 Cadillac. That car was the love of his life." She smiled down at her lap, remembering. "Guys that call their cars 'she' always remind me of him."

Dean smiled wryly and scratched the back of his head. "Great. I remind you of your grandfather. That's _exactly_ what I was going for."

She twisted toward him, pulling her left knee up onto the seat. "Hey, I like older men."

He met her dark, shining eyes and thought where this was heading was probably a really bad idea. Not that he was too worried about the longterm consequences usually, but considering the scene back at the bar…she was probably a really screwed-up chick that he ought to back away from.

"Older men like Paul?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

She sighed. "Paul's not a bad guy, really. He just has trouble taking no for an answer."

Dean thought a second before he spoke.

"Well, I know it's not my business, Lacey, but he's not a _good_ guy, either. He was manhandling you pretty good."

She looked away. "I know. It caught me off guard." She paused. "Maybe he'll get the message after tonight. If not…" She shrugged, then looked back at Dean. "Look, I usually don't need to be rescued. I don't want you to get the idea that this is some kind of pattern for me."

"I'm not gettin' any ideas at all." He said, his smile maybe suggesting otherwise.

She smiled back. "My grandmother says I should get a restraining order. She's probably right."

Dean let that lie a minute, then changed the subject. "Sounds like you're close to your grandmother?"

"Uh, yeah, we are. I still live with her, at least until I finish my degree. My mom died when I was born. She raised me."

"Oh. Sorry about your mom."

"It's okay. You don't miss what you never knew."

Dean doubted that himself, but didn't know her well enough to call bullshit. And he was tired, too, getting too lazy to talk much anymore. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the breeze cool his face, feeling like he'd laid down some burden. It felt like a rest had been a long time coming.

It was so quiet he could hear his own breathing and he listened to it for a minute, until he felt her weight shift across the seat. She laid her hand on his thigh; he kept his eyes closed. Her breath stirred across the side of his neck. She pressed her lips just below his right ear, then slid her tongue along the groove of his jaw. He tilted his head toward her and opened his eyes part way.

"Hey," he said, low and sleepy-rough.

She smiled and put her hand to his collarbone, stretching up to reach his mouth. Said "Hey" against his lips.

"You know," he said between kisses, "I'm not supposed to take advantage of the damsel in distress."

"No?" she breathed. She moved her hand up his leg and started rubbing her thumb slowly up and down the crease where thigh met hip. He cradled her face in his palm and threaded his fingers into her hair, slipped his tongue across her lips and just inside.

"Nope," he mumbled. "Can't do it. Violation of the Lone Ranger code."

"Yeah?" she whispered, licking and kissing up the side of his neck. "Does the damsel get any say?"

He let a soft groan escape when she licked around the shell of his ear. "Mmm. Maybe. In certain circumstances."

"Well I wouldn't want you to break any rules on my account," she said, shifting her hand to palm his cock and press gently.

He hissed in a breath and put his hand over hers.

"Fuck the rules," he rumbled. "They're really more like guidelines anyway."

He lunged for her mouth and kissed her deep and dirty, sliding out from under the wheel. She put her arms around his shoulders and pulled up onto her knees. He cupped her ass in both hands and set her down across his lap. She started grinding down onto his cock in a rhythm that had him sweating and pushing back, pulling her down onto him with his hands and that was good, and _sweet baby Jesus, the girl could kiss_.

He ran his hands up under her t-shirt and circled her nipples with his thumbs. She gasped and sucked his tongue into her mouth with an urgency that made his hips jerk up against her. She brought her hands to his belt and the button of his jeans. He stopped trying to slow things down.

He pulled her shirt off over her head in one smooth motion and flicked the catch of her bra open with another. She let the straps slide off her shoulders and down her arms, giving him a wicked grin and licking across her bottom lip. He dipped his head to her left breast and sucked, felt her nipple harden against his tongue, and he liked that a lot, always had, fucking_ loved _the way his mouth on her made her tip her head back and moan_. _

She bent her face back down to his and said his name, and he kissed her again, then buried his face in her neck and licking and sucking until she pulled back. She sat back onto the seat and slipped out of her jeans. He slid his own off his hips, grabbing his wallet out of the back pocket and pulling out a condom as his jeans hit the floor. She put her hand over his and took it from him, tearing it open and rolling the rubber down his length slowly, eyes never leaving his.

She swung her leg over him and he ran his hand up the inside of her thigh, keeping her from sitting down against him by brushing his thumb across her clit. She stayed up on her knees as he worked her nipples with his free hand and his tongue. He listened to her breath coming harder and faster and slipped a finger inside her, then two, still circling her clit with his thumb. _Jesusgod, she was so wet_. He told her so against her neck, making her shiver and press harder into his hand.

He kept his fingers moving in and out and around until she started to tremble. He guided her down onto him with a hand on the small of her back until he was all the way inside. He groaned, slipping both hands to the round of her ass and holding her there to keep her from moving when the sudden heat and pressure and—_God, the look on her face_—threatened to end him right there. _Fuck—too long since he had this._

He closed his eyes and waited and she put her hands in his hair, keeping still against him, following his lead. He opened his eyes again and risked a small thrust and then another and he couldn't really stop himself now, but her mouth was open and she was gasping and_ fuck, _she was close, too, he could feel it in the way she was riding him and he started talking her over the edge.

"Come on… yeah… like that…feel so good…come for me…" and she did what he asked, and the sounds she made when she clenched around his cock were all he could take.

He bucked up into her and his mind spiraled up into nothing but _soft _and _hot _and _good. _He groaned at the release and for once he didn't give a shit about the part of himself he was giving away. He let it all go, forgot himself for a while.

Chapter 3

Sam was sitting in front of the laptop, but he wasn't really looking at it. His head was pounding and this case was giving him a bad taste in his mouth, worse the longer they were here. He felt like he was missing something that was staring him in the face. Another time that would have riled his stubborn streak, made him pick at the problem until he had it untangled, but this one…he just wanted to dump it and run. Had no idea why.

_That's bullshit and you know it._ Psychic ability. He couldn't run from what was inside his own head. Seeing the spirit yesterday—was it _what_ he saw, or that he saw it at all, that had him so freaked?

He tried to focus on the case, get his mind off himself. Who was she? Why was she bleeding? She wasn't a woman in white. Something else. Why was she here?

Sam flinched at the sunlight that flooded in when Dean shouldered open the door. He had his hands full of paper bags and a coffee carrier.

"Jesus, it's like a cave in here. You could turn on some lights or somethin'." He set everything down on the table and opened the heavy drapes.

"Since when are you all sunshine and sweetness the morning after, Dean?" Sam muttered.

Dean chuckled. "That depends on what it's the morning after, Sammy."

Sam held up his hands. "I didn't ask and I'm not going to."

"Aw, there wasn't much to tell anyway. Let's see…there was beer, and a fight, and sex with a hot girl…" Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Hell, no wonder I'm feeling so good."

"That's great, Dean. I'm thrilled for you. I'm happy to sit in the library all night doing all the work, so you could go out and have a good time. Hell, that's what I'm here for apparently…wait a minute—back it up—did you say there was a fight?"

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't even call it that, really."

Sam was frustrated and upset and pissed anyway, and now he was on a roll.

"You always have to start something, don't you? Can't you ever just lay low someplace? These people in these small towns—they're all connected, Dean! How are we supposed to do our job if you keep getting drunk and beating the shit out of the potential witnesses?"

Dean stood up. "Look, I don't know what's got your panties in such a twist, but I don't get drunk while we're working a case and you fucking well know it. And I didn't 'beat the shit' out of anybody. I can do my job just fine!"

Sam sat back in his chair and folded his arms, scowling up at Dean. "Yeah," he muttered. "Sounds like it."

Dean clenched his jaw. He sat down in the chair opposite Sam, folded his arms and faced him down.

"Fine, Sam. Since you're doing all the work on this one, what did you find out?"

Sam sighed. He'd hadn't slept for shit last night and he was tired, too tired for this. He leaned his face into his hand, elbow on the table, and rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb.

"Fuck, Dean. I haven't found shit, if you wanna know the truth."

"But you still don't think it's a woman in white. Why?"

It was a simple, direct question, or should have been. But nothing was ever like it seemed for him. For them.

"Dean, the spirit I saw yesterday, whatever she was, she had a…she had blood all over her, she'd been…" Sam swallowed. "Dean, she looked like she'd been cut open, her stomach, I mean." He made himself look at Dean.

But Dean got up and walked to the window, turning his back on Sam. He stood there for a long minute and Sam let him. When he turned back, Sam could see every freckle on his white face.

"You mean like Mom? Like…" Dean stopped there.

"Like Jess," Sam finished grimly. "Almost exactly like that."

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean ran a hand over his mouth. _No wonder you were sick_.

"Yeah." He collapsed against the back of the chair. "Man, what have we walked into here?"

"I don't know, but we need to find out. And we need to find out something else while we're at it."

"What's that?"

Dean looked at him grimly and bit the bullet.

"Why did you see her and I didn't? Was it one of your visions?"

"It wasn't anything like the other ones. There was no headache; it was just her standing there. She had on some kind of necklace, a shiny, silvery thing. It reflected the sun and blinded me for a second. Lucky I wasn't the one driving, I guess."

"Well…let that go for now." Dean sighed. "Guess we gotta go back through it all again. See what we missed."

They spent the day going over everything they'd dug up, no closer to finding out who the woman was than when they started. Looking for more information on the victims, Sam had conned his way into the local hospital medical records department and copied the files of the accident victims, only short two of the ones that he knew about. Dean went back through the police reports of the accidents.

By five that evening, they were only about half done and Dean had had enough. He pushed his chair back noisily and stood up to stretch.

"Come on, Sam. Let's go get some food. I can't see straight anymore."

Sam put his hands behind his head and arched his back until it popped. "Sounds good."

There was a 50's-style diner down the street and they walked just to stretch their legs.  
The air was slick with grease as they walked to a booth and flopped down. Sam was rubbing his face with both hands when a waitress in a poodle skirt and ponytail walked over with the menus. Dean always figured waiting tables was a crappy enough job—the least he could do was be friendly—so he looked up and smiled at her.

It took him a second with her hair up like that, but then he laughed.

"Stop laughing," Lacey said, "or I'll spit in your food. They make me wear this shit."

"Uh…I'm not laughing," Dean said, but grinning so hard sure was making the muscles in his face work overtime. "Heh…no, no, I'm not laughing, I swear…Lacey, this is my brother Sam."

He turned to look at Sam for the other half of the formal introduction (he had manners, thank you very much), but whatever he'd been going to say died a premature death at the sight of Sam staring at Lacey with a look like somebody just belted him with a sledgehammer. What the hell?

"Uh, Sam? You okay?" Dean asked with exaggerated inflection, like Sam was a slightly slow child.

Sam jerked. He focused on Dean briefly, then resumed staring at Lacey.

"Uh yeah," Sam said. "Nice to meet you, Lacey." He attempted a smile, but it died on his lips almost as soon as it got there, never made it to his eyes at all, Dean noticed. Seriously, what the hell?

Whatever the problem was, Sam had started doing that weird thing with his eyes where he tried to telegraph something to Dean without saying anything and it always made Dean roll his eyes like he was doing right now, because this shit _never_ worked, because Dean wasn't a fucking mind reader.

Lacey was looking back and forth between them like they'd gone crazy and who could blame her, so Dean asked for some iced tea and said Sam would have the same so she could go get it, and he could find out what the hell was wrong with his crazy-ass brother.

"What the hell is wrong with you, crazy-ass?" Dean hissed as soon as Lacey was out of hearing.

"Shit, Dean." He could feel Sam's thigh bouncing nervously under the table, and the part of him above the table didn't look so hot either. "When I first saw her I thought she _was_ the ghost. She looks just like her, man."

"The ghost? The one from yesterday?"

"No, Dean, the one I saw when I was fucking twelve! Of _course,_ the one from yesterday, you moron!"

"All right, take it easy." He wiped his hand across his mouth. "Jesus. Calm down. We'll figure this out."

"Dean, how do you know this girl? She the one from last night?"

"Well, yeah, Sam. We've only been in town two days. How many girls do you _think_ I know here?" Dean said, ignoring Sam's pointed look.

Dean looked over at Lacey and tilted his head at Sam. "I'm pretty sure she's not a ghost, dude. She felt pretty solid last night."

"Just shut up and tell me what you know about her."

Dean ignored the physical impossibility of that and tried to think where this was all leading.

"We didn't talk that much," he said, ignoring Sam's eye roll and smiling at Lacey when she came back with their drinks.

"Hey, thanks. Listen Lacey, I was just telling Sam about you, and what a jerk I've been."

She raised her brows and cocked her head. "Well, I guess some women might find your paternalistic streak a bit annoying, but I wouldn't say you're a jerk."

He took a breath to speak, frowned confusedly, then said, "Okay" and paused. He tried again. "But what I meant was, I never got your last name last night."

"Oh, I see. Can I take your orders, guys?" she said with a grin.

Okay, she wanted to play with him a little. Dean could handle it. He smiled back and ordered a cheeseburger. Sam said he'd have the same, obviously just wanting her to go away so they could talk.

"What else, Dean?" Sam said, with that intense look on his face that always gave Dean a headache, because it invariably led to lots of hours spent with his nose in the files of some dusty county records office.

"She said her grandfather was interested in classic cars. Her mom died when she was born and she was raised by her grandparents." Dean thought a minute. "That's it. And Sam, I swear to God if you roll your eyes at me one more time, I'll slap 'em right off your face."

Sam showed him both palms. "Hey, I just don't see how you can know so little about a person you've spent that much time with, much less…you know…_been _with." He gestured vaguely with the last.

Dean leaned across the table, whispering furiously, "Okay, Sam, maybe we'll set her down across _your_ lap and see if _you_ feel like playing Twenty Questions…Heh, heh, _hey_, thanks a lot Lacey. That looks really good. Thanks. Really."

"Can I get you boys something else? A referee, maybe?" she asked wryly, raising her eyebrows.

"Huh. Nah," Dean chuckled weakly. "We're good. Sammy here's a little hormonal today—he just heard Andromeda was cancelled. The guy _loves_ Kevin Sorbo."

Lacey made a confused face and backed up a couple of steps. "Just let me know if you need anything," she said and turned and walked back to the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder once and Dean sent her a nod.

But apparently they weren't talking anymore because Sam was tearing into his burger like it had pissed him off and he was going to teach it a sharp, toothy lesson—seriously, Dean hadn't seen him eat like that since he was sixteen. He was ignoring Dean, which was fine really because Dean didn't know anything else to tell him.

He figured the ghost was Lacey's mother. Whoever she was, she'd been trying to get someone's attention for over twenty years, so the timeline fit. He was going to have to get to know Lacey better if he was going to find out anything. Sacrifices must be made and he was up for it. So to speak.

Lacey came back and laid the check on the table.

"Thanks, guys. It was nice meeting you, Sam."

"Yeah, same here." Sam managed a pretty decent smile this time.

"See you around, Lacey," Dean gave her a disarming smile of his own.

"Maybe you will," she said, turning her back and walking away. The swing of her hips made Dean think the chance of that was more "damn straight" than "maybe".

As soon as they were through the door of the diner, Sam rounded on him.

"That's great, Dean! It seems pretty damned likely that Lacey's this ghost woman's daughter and we don't know any more about her than we did when we walked in there!"

Dean flipped the receipt in his hand face up at Sam without looking at it. It was scrawled in red ink across the bottom.

"Lacey Lowrey. 784-8365."

"_God."_

"You find somethin'?"

"Yeah. A lot of something." Sam had spent a good chunk of his adult life immersed in descriptions of grisly death, but this was a new one for him.

"In August of 1983, a pregnant woman named Theresa Lowrey went missing. She lived with her parents and just didn't come home from work one day. She was close to her due date; of course there was a frantic search. No trace was found. Then, about a week after her disappearance, one of Theresa's coworkers turned up with a female infant, claimed the baby belonged to a distant relative and she was in the process of _adopting_ her." Sam stopped and took a drink from his water bottle.

"'Adopting?' Crazy-speak for 'kidnapping'?" Dean muttered.

"Yeah. But it gets worse. Like you said, the woman was unbalanced, and it didn't take long for the police to figure it out and get a confession out of her. Get this: she performed an amateur C-section on Theresa—_with a set of car keys_—and left her to die in an open field."

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

"And the kid?"

"Theresa's parents got custody."

Dean let his breath out loudly and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

Sam watched him for a bit, then asked, "You're thinking we can find her, salt and burn the bones?"

Dean glanced at him, then looked back down at the floor.

"Actually I was wondering if Lacey knows about all this."

Sam winced slightly.

"Probably. It wasn't that hard to find, once we knew who to look for."

"Yeah, she's a smart girl. Seems pretty well adjusted, though. You know, for having to deal with something like that all her life."

"That's probably what most people would say about us, Dean."

"Sam, do you ever wonder what happened to the good old days when people just buried the fucking body in a normal place where you could just go dig it up and take care of the problem with a simple salt and burn?"

They were leaning against the Impala outside the county records office. This was mostly Dean's fourth cup of coffee talking, Sam figured.

"Usually cremation's a good thing, Dean. We'd probably have a lot less to do if people did it more often."

"Yeah, yeah. What now, college boy?"

Dean knew as well as Sam did what the likely next steps were; this was just the way Dean figured things out, bouncing ideas off him, thinking out loud.

"It was a pretty gory death. Angry spirit wanting revenge, maybe? We need to take another look at the victims, figure out how she's choosing them."

Dean pouted. "Shit. That means more paperwork."

The thought of trying to do any work at all with a caffeinated Dean under foot made Sam's head ache.

"Nonono…not you…," Sam stuttered. "I mean, I think you should see if you can get hold of Lacey, see if you can find out anything. Take her to lunch or something. Go do…whatever it is you do."

Dean's face relaxed. "Now see, that's why I never went to college." He tapped the side of his head. "Damages your brain." He opened his door and got in the car.

Sam got in. "What are you talking about?"

"Picking a moldy pile of paperwork over lunch with a pretty girl? Sure sign of brain damage, dude."

"Lacey? This is Dean."

"Oh, hey Dean. What's up?"

"Well, I'm new in town, you know and no disrespect to your place of business, but I don't really want to eat there again. Can I take you to lunch?"

"Well, that depends. Is your best girl picking me up?"

Dean smiled lazily. "Hell, yeah. I never go anywhere without her."

"Then the answer's yes. How can I turn down a ride like that?"

Dean chuckled low. "I have to hand it to you, Lacey. Most women don't understand our special relationship."

"Well, the lady and I are intimate. We've already had a threesome," she purred.

Whatever Dean had meant to say stuck in his throat and he had to make a quick adjustment, shifting in his seat.

"Uh, yeah. I'll be there about 12:30?"

It was a small Mexican place that looked to be family owned, rapid Spanish flying through the overheated air. The building was older, but clean, and the food the best Dean had eaten since El Paso, back when Sam was still away at school, hot enough to break a sweat across his forehead by the second bite. Sam would be paying for the refried beans later, and Dean was pretty okay with that part, too.

"Great place, Lacey."

"Yeah. I like it. It's _real_, you know? None of the asinine dress-up crap I have to work with." She poked at the stem of her chile relleno with her fork. "What did you say you and Sam were doing in town, again?"

He hadn't said. "We're with the state highway department. Investigating some accidents on a stretch of road near here." Liar's rule number one: keep your story as close to the truth as possible.

"I think I know the one you mean."

It was subtle, but Dean could read the tension in her voice. She knew. She knew about her mom, her death, where they'd found her body, maybe even the accidents. He wondered if she knew about the ghost.

"You two finished?" An older woman about as wide as she was tall was standing at their table, the café's owner, Lacey had explained earlier. She winked at Lacey as she gathered the dishes, "Es muy guapo, eh, mi hija?"

Dean quirked a smile. _He's very handsome, eh, daughter? _

Lacey glanced at Dean and said wryly, "Careful, Crucita—you'll give him a big head."

Crucita rattled something in Spanish too rapid for Dean to translate as she walked off with their plates, following it with a laugh that sounded vaguely dirty to him.

He leaned toward Lacey. "Do I want to know what she just said?"

Lacey laughed. "No. Definitely not." She leaned across the table and whispered in his ear. "I'm the only one who gets to talk dirty to you in Spanish."

He grinned. "Lookin' forward to it."

They drove back to the college without saying too much. Dean liked that about Lacey. She didn't talk unless she had something to say. Problem was, it made it a lot harder for him to do his job.

Dean looked up at his mirror, glanced over at Lacey, then checked the rearview again.

"Lacey, you wouldn't happen to know anybody who drives a new-looking blue Ford pickup with tinted windows, would you?"

Her look was sharp. "Why?" she demanded.

"Because one's been following us ever since we left the restaurant."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "It's Paul."

"I figured," he said, watching the mirror. "I would offer to stop and kick his ass for you, but I'm pretty sure I already did that."

He glanced at her and she was still looking over shoulder at the pickup. It was the first time he'd seen a hint of fear in her eyes.

"I think your grandmother's right. You need to get the authorities involved with this," he said.

"The authorities, Dean? What are they going to do?" Her tone seemed a little bitter, but maybe that was just anxiety he was hearing.

"Look, Lacey, this shit right here?" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "This is not just annoying-ex behavior anymore. He's crossed over to crazy-stalker territory."

"Just take me back to the school. I can take care of myself." She folded her arms and wouldn't look at him for the rest of the drive.

He got out with her when they stopped. She seemed to have calmed down and he tried one more time.

"Where's your next class? I'll walk with you."

"Stop it, Dean. I know you're just trying to help, but he's not going to do anything to me, okay?" She leaned up and kissed him.

He had a sudden urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake, make her see some sense, but figured that wouldn't do much for his case against manhandling. He kissed her back instead. Before he let go, he said, "You've got my number. You call me if you need anything, okay?"

She laid her hand against his cheek and said, "I'll be fine. But thank you."

He turned back to the Impala in time to see Paul drive by, glaring at Dean coldly through his open window.

In this dialect "mi hija" is pronounced mee-ha, a term of endearment.

Chapter 4

Sam closed the motel room door behind him and leaned back against it, closing his eyes. Solitude was relief. He never seemed to get enough of it, not ever in his life, but especially these last few months on the road. It was a big reason he didn't mind doing way more than his share of the research—this time to himself, the quiet hours in the libraries or records offices, when he could lose himself in his own head, not have to worry about talking. If he spent some of that time thinking about things other than the case, well, that was his business.

And if Jess lived on in his mind that way, then he figured that was okay, too. He wondered if he spent more time than was healthy reliving their moments together, but couldn't really care about it. He was hanging on by a ragged fingernail most days and if that was what it took to keep the last shred from ripping away, he could live with it.

He sat down and started laying out what he needed to work this through. Probably wouldn't need the laptop much—most of what he was looking at now was here in hard copy—but he started it up anyway. He had things on there Dean didn't know about, pictures he only looked at when Dean wasn't around. Pictures of Jess, of the two of them together, emailed by friends in the days after her death because he'd asked for them.

But this case was screwing with his head to the point that he couldn't even look at a picture of her now without seeing her like she was the last time in Palo Alto, the way he thought he'd seen on her on the road yesterday, and he hated it. More than that, he hated this case for making him relive one of the few parts of their lives together that he'd like to forget, those few terrifying weeks that he tried hard to _never_ relive in his quieter moments.

_Damn_. This was getting him nowhere. Sooner started, sooner finished. He opened the files of the victims and started looking for clues, patterns, answers. He made notes, stacked papers together, tried to see what they were telling him. Vital statistics, age, sex, occupation—it all seemed pretty random.

An hour passed. He rubbed his eyes; this light wasn't really good enough for this. He was going to wind up needing glasses if he kept working in the shitty light of these motel rooms.

Frustrated, he decided to try a trick he'd used successfully a few times before. He spread the reports out across the floor so he could look at them all at once, one type of report at a time so that they all looked close to the same in format, starting with the victims' medical records. Since they'd all come from the same hospital there was some standardization and it made it a little easier to see the differences. He scanned the sheets, not really focusing on the individual words, not trying to read them, just getting an image of what they were saying. It was a little like those Magic Eye computer-generated things that were so popular a few years back—don't try to focus directly on the surface of it and sometimes an unexpected picture will emerge.

He waited. Didn't try to force it, just let his subconscious mind work on the problem without interference. He didn't know how much time had passed, but eventually there was something. It was there in most of the files. He looked closer, started to read. Reproductive History: Gravida 2, Para 1, A1. Reproductive History: Gravida 4, Para 3, A1…

The ones that were missing the phrase made sense; they were males. The others? His knowledge of Latin was enough to figure it out from the context. "Gravida" was the number of pregnancies, "Para" was live births. The letter A? He looked back through a couple of the files and a twisted version of a kindergarten chant spilled onto his tongue: A is for abortion.

_Sam can't say he's happy about it, but it's her decision and he has to admit to a certain sense of guilty relief. He's still learning to take care of himself, _be_ himself; he can't imagine taking on a responsibility this terrifying. He's twenty-one years old. He doesn't know shit about being a father; look at the example he had. It doesn't matter what he might have or do someday. Someday isn't here, isn't now, and they're on a timetable. _

_The clinic is clean and smells like antiseptic, just like every other medical facility he's ever had to endure, but like every other time, he thinks he can smell a faint undertone of blood, like the reek of it has soaked into his brain through his nose over so many years of inhaling it. It's always the blood of someone he loves, shed for him, because of him. _

The waiting room is decorated like a parody of someone's living room, with carpet and tacky prints and upholstered chairs, but he's grateful for Jess' sake that it isn't too sterile, too cold. He can almost pretend they're just here for something routine. He supposes this is routine here. A simple "procedure," the doctor had repeatedly called it, as though Jessica were some sort of fucked-up high school science experiment.

_Jessica sits with one hand in his and the other wrapped around a crumpled tissue, but her eyes are dry and faraway. They call her name and she follows the nurse through the door without looking back. Sam sits with his face in his hands and wonders how he's managed to screw this up. They'd been careful, but it wasn't good enough. He never seems to be careful enough, good enough, to keep the bad things away._

_But when they bring Jessica back out the door, pale and shaking, and let him take her home, he swears to himself and any powers that might be listening that he'll never let anyone or anything hurt her again. Not even him. _

He didn't remember sitting down on the floor in front of the scattered papers, but he wasn't sure he could stand up. He ran a shaking hand over his face and reminded himself one more time to pull it together; that this was just a _case._ Nothing to do with him or his life before. He forced himself to pick up the sheets one by one and read.

By the time he got back to the motel, Dean had reached a conclusion. The quicker they got this case cleaned up, the better off they'd be. He knew better than this, to let himself care like this. It made it too hard to move on.

He stepped inside the door of the room and didn't wait to ask.

"What did you find out?"

Sam went straight to the point as well and Dean didn't even stop to wonder at it. Whatever got them out of here was fine with him.

"I know what she wants."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"She wants her child. She wants Lacey."

Chapter 5

Dean called Lacey and arranged for them both to see her that evening. He let her think it was over the Paul situation, not ready to go into the real reason over the phone. He wasn't sure how he was going to tell her anyway. He guessed he'd wing it. It wasn't like he hadn't done it plenty of times before.

Lacey invited them in to the small, older house she shared with her grandmother. They sat down around an old scarred coffee table. Dean felt weirdly formal and uncomfortable, considering the other times he'd seen Lacey. He knew her better than most of the other people they'd had to go through this stuff with. Maybe that was the problem.

"If you're here to nag me about Paul, you can save it," she said, looking irritated. "I filed a restraining order against him this afternoon."

"Glad to hear it, but uh…that's not really why we're here," Dean said. "It's more about the work we came here to do." _Your mom's a ghost and we need you to go and put her to rest, now, 'kay? Thanks. _Shit.

"Your work? On the highway?" She looked confused.

Sam cleared his throat. "Lacey, Dean told you about the section of road we're looking at? About the accidents?"

"Yeah," she said carefully, folding her arms together tightly and hunching her shoulders. Protecting herself, Dean thought. Shit. This was gonna be bad for her.

"Lacey, we're sorry to bring this up, really," Sam continued, "but we know what happened to your mother. They found her alongside that stretch of road, didn't they?"

She sucked in a breath and Dean winced. She looked like she'd been slapped.

"What? That's none of your business," she snapped. "And what does the highway department have to do with it, anyway? It was years ago—what the hell do you want from me?"

Dean's voice was low. "Lacey, I'm sorry. Believe me, I know how hard this is to hear and I wish to hell we didn't have to bring it up, but people are dying out there and we think it has something to do with your mother and what happened to her."

"What? How? What could it possibly matter now?"

Moment of truth. It never got any easier.

"Lacey, you've lived here all your life, haven't you? I know you've heard the stories. You know about the woman. She appears on that road sometimes, and sometimes people die."

Lacey shook her head and stood up like she was ready to show them the door. A woman's calm voice spoke from behind her.

"You're talking about my daughter, aren't you?"

Sam and Dean stood up as she walked toward them. She looked to be in her early sixties, with salt and pepper hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. Dean could see Lacey's strong bone structure in her face, even more prominent in the older woman. The kind of woman they called handsome, rather than pretty.

Lacey turned toward her. She clenched her jaw.

"Grandma, this is Dean and Sam. They were just leaving," Lacey said, looking down at the floor.

Sam slid a glance her way, but picked up a picture from the table. "Mrs. Lowrey, is this your daughter?"

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "That's Theresa."

"I saw her two days ago. Out on highway 94. Near where they found her." Sam paused, then plowed on, getting it over with. "She had a necklace of some kind, Mrs. Lowrey. Silver, reflective…it might have been a…"

"A silver cross," she cut him off. "I gave it to her. It was my mother's." She looked lost for a moment, her face coming apart a little, but she regained control quickly.

Lacey sat down hard on the sofa. Dean couldn't tell how she was doing, but at least she was listening.

"You think my daughter's spirit is restless," Mrs. Lowrey said. It wasn't a question.

Sam looked at Dean, then back at Lacey's grandmother. "Yes, ma'am, we do."

"Can you help her?"

"No ma'am. But we think your granddaughter can."

Lacey finally agreed to go with them and try, mostly due to her grandmother's calm acceptance, Dean thought. She was curled up around herself in the middle of the front seat. He thought the looks he was catching out of the corner of his eye were reproach and he was willing to own every one. He'd been where she was, confronted his mother's ghost not that long ago. He thought it was an excellent thing he hadn't seen that one coming, doubted he'd have had Lacey's courage for it.

It didn't help that they weren't exactly sure what they were doing, whether this would even work or not. Sam seemed pretty confident that whatever happened, Theresa wouldn't hurt Lacey and Dean figured it was a pretty safe bet that she wouldn't harm her own daughter, but there was no way to know for sure until they tried.

There was no time pattern to the appearances—some had happened during broad daylight, others at night—but they'd waited until the early hours of the morning to minimize interference from passing traffic. He didn't like it, but Dean pulled the car to the side of the road as close to the marks from the accidents as he could get. There was no way to know the exact spot where they'd found Theresa's body, but it figured that they were close.

Sam got out and gave Lacey a hand out after him. Dean walked up close enough behind her to feel her shivering, though it wasn't cool. She didn't move away from him, so he put an arm around her shoulders and it seemed to steady her. They waited.

It was too quiet, the air heavy and ominous, and Dean caught a whiff of ozone. Theresa was close and they all sensed it, each of them tensing but being careful not to move.

A heavy footstep behind them made Dean pivot into a crouch, instinctively knowing it was no ghost.

"Just hold it right there! Get your hands up!"

His first thought was "cop," but the figure advanced and Dean realized. It was Paul. Dean closed his eyes for a second and clenched his jaw. Fucking great. Just what they needed right now.

"I said, get 'em up!" Paul had a rifle to his shoulder and Dean put his hands up. Paul might not be able to fight hand-to-hand for shit, but one look had told Dean that he knew how to use the gun.

"Just take it easy, man. Be cool," Dean said, low and calming.

"You son of a bitch, you get away from her now, both of you!"

"Paul, what are you doing? Put the gun down, it's okay. I'm fine. Let's talk about this," Lacey soothed, no trace of panic in her voice. _Good girl._

"Lacey…you can't trust these guys, bringing you out here alone, _two_ of them, for God's sake…come over here. You're safe now. I'll protect you." Paul was looking sweaty and nervous now and Dean was getting pretty nervous himself.

Lacey tried again. "Paul, I don't feel very safe with that gun pointing in my face. Put it down and we'll talk about this."

"No! I…you…come with me, Lace…"

There was a flash of light and Paul shut his eyes and flinched away from it. Dean was ready. He launched himself at Paul's midsection, trusting Sam to get Lacey down and out of the crossfire. He hit Paul in the solar plexus with his shoulder and took him down in a flying tackle. The air whooshed out of him as Dean landed on him. The rifle bounced off into the grass. Leaving Paul gasping for air, Dean got up and ran to grab the rifle, training it on him.

"Sam? You two okay?"

Paul was still gasping, but he levered himself up onto his elbows.

"Just stay where you are, asshole," Dean warned him, but he wasn't trying to get to his feet. He was looking at something behind Dean with wide eyes.

Dean turned far enough to see what Paul was looking at and still keep him covered.

_Damn. Sam was right about the family resemblance. _Theresa's figure was glowing slightly and she was looking down at Lacey, who was still on the ground with Sam crouching over her. Sam eased away from Lacey carefully, never taking his eyes off Theresa, trying to avoid her marking him as some kind of threat.

The slash across her middle was dark as she reached out for her daughter, a pleading look in her eyes. Lacey pushed herself off the ground and walked toward the spirit, stopping about three feet in front of her. Theresa reached to her neck and touched the cross hanging there, then stretched her other hand out to Lacey, laying it against her cheek. Lacey leaned her face into the touch.

The cross began to glow brighter and Theresa's awful wound glowed with it. When the light died out, the dark stain was gone. A second later, Theresa was too.

They had the Impala packed and ready to go by nine the next morning, both anxious to put this one behind them. They just had one stop to make before they left town. Dean was pretending to complain about it, and Sam let him lay the blame on him for wanting to check on Lacey one more time.

"So, Sam." Dean said.

Sam looked inquiringly at him.

"I've been thinkin', you know, this new psychic thing of yours, seeing spirits and all…it might come in really handy. You know, for the job." Dean scratched the back of his neck.

Sam winced. He'd been hoping to postpone this conversation until…well, never.

"Dean, I don't think I have any new psychic ability," Sam said.

Dean frowned. "What about Theresa? You saw her; I didn't."

Sam rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

"Yeah. The thing is…I think I saw her for the same reason the other victims did, not because I'm psychic."

Dean turned a confused look on him. "Wait…I thought they were seeing her because of the abortion connection…sort of a Missing Fetus Support Group, or whatever."

"Yeah," Sam said softly and turned his head to the window.

They pulled up in front of Lacey's place and Dean killed the engine, but he didn't make a move to get out.

"That's why this case was eating at you so hard," Dean said, staring hard at the steering wheel. "Jessica?"

"Yeah. A few months before you came to get me, before…everything."

"Shit. Man, I'm sorry. That sucks."

"Yeah. It did. But it's over now. It was a long time ago."

Sam shook his head, dipped his chin. "Huh. Can you imagine me a father?"

Dean turned to look at him. "Why not you?"

Sam snorted. "Yeah, right. Like I'd bring a kid into _this_ life. And I don't know shit about a normal one, so…" He shrugged.

Dean looked out his window, then rubbed at his lip with the side of his index finger and nodded.

"Normal. That's what you think being a father, raising a kid, is all about? Playing catch in the back yard and shit like that?" He shook his head. "No wonder you think Dad was so bad at it."

Sam looked at him. "What do _you_ think it's about, Dean?"

"I think it's about teaching him to be a man." Dean met his eyes. "And from where I'm sittin' Sammy, it looks like Dad did a pretty damned good job."

He clapped Sam on the shoulder and got out of the car, his tolerance for heavy conversation exceeded.

Sam watched him stand in the Impala's open door, checking his jacket for a weapon as casually as another man might pat his pocket for his wallet, before closing the door behind him. Sam smiled to himself.

"You're wrong, Dean. I didn't learn that from Dad—I learned it from you."

Sam got out of the car and followed his brother up the walk.

**A/N**: The tragedy I perpetrated on poor Theresa actually happened back in the 80s near Albuquerque. You can't make that shit up, peoples. Or I probably wouldn't anyway. The motorcycle accident at the beginning of the story was also based on a real event that occurred about 2 miles from my house.


End file.
